


I Dream of You to Wake

by whoredini



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ASMR, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-05 23:54:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17928770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whoredini/pseuds/whoredini
Summary: John finds an unusual cure for his insomnia.





	I Dream of You to Wake

I dream of you, to wake: would that I might

Dream of you and not wake but slumber on...

Christina Rossetti

 

1.

No one could blame John Watson for having sleepless nights. War veteran, widowed single father, doctor, colleague and friend of Sherlock Holmes, and perpetually spied upon by the two most astute agents in British intelligence history (Mrs Hudson and Mycroft Holmes, in that order); no, in his insomnia at least John Watson was blameless. Night after night, long after Rosie had fallen soundly asleep like the little angel she was, long after Sherlock had sent the last of his incessant texts, and long after the guilt, grief and anger John felt for his dead wife had risen and ebbed away, the tide pulling farther back each passing week, John Watson lay awake in bed, exhausted and sleepless.

Being a doctor, John had tried every way he could think of to deal with the insomnia. He went to the gym, piously attended therapy once a fortnight (he was back with Ella, who took in John’s turn with Sherlock’s sister with stoic eyebrows and the briefest note on the pad before her), drank less coffee and tea, drank more water, took a magnesium supplement that made his urine smell funny, did breathing exercises, tried guided meditations, drank herbal concoctions; he even, bless him, tried sleeping pills; sleeping pills which mysteriously disappeared from his flat around the same time an anonymous black car did an irate drive-by on John’s morning walk. Mycroft spared him two raised eyebrows before the window rolled back up and the car sped off. John had not tried to refill his prescription. He supposed he couldn’t blame Mycroft for being wary of either addiction to controlled substances or suicide by controlled substances, but it was still annoying.

After a critical once-over that absolutely did not arouse John, Sherlock had pronounced that what John needed was more cases; and so for two weeks, their case load increased exponentially. Sherlock took whatever case he could, and between the two of them, they solved a murder, two robberies, a missing person case, and a $3 000 000 fraud. They also found the secret ingredient to Angelo’s mushroom risotto, which they used to blackmail endless helpings of said risotto from him. Yet still John couldn’t fall asleep.

He tried Mrs Hudson’s herbal soothers (“for my hip”), Molly’s yoga (John had had a whole _different_ kind of sleepless night after seeing how flexible Molly was, but that he would take to his grave, and possibly beyond), Greg’s football (the Scotland Yarders), Harry’s smoothies (Jesus), and Parents Holmes’ offer to babysit Rosie (he’d ended up spending most of the evening yawning in front of Sherlock’s fireplace while Sherlock strummed the violin discordantly). He’d gone jogging with Sally, spent a weekend at Bill and his wife’s to “unwind”, and visited Mary’s grave with Rosie for the second time. The only offer John had not taken up was Sarah’s breezy suggestion that he go for a massage with a “happy ending”. Not only was it the principle of the thing, but John rather feared that the ending would go the way of Firefly and come too soon. Anyway.

So it was that on an unparticular Wednesday night at eleven forty-two pm, when John was Googling increasingly obscure cures for insomnia, he found a thread in a forum gushing about ASMR, how relaxing it was, and how many people routinely fell asleep with it.

John tapped cautiously and with the volume on his tablet on low, but the blue link merely took him to a Wikipedia page. According to the article, “Auto-Sensory Meridian Response” was the name for a physical sensation felt by some people when they heard certain sounds: whispering, soft speaking, tapping, crinkling and so on. The phenomenon was largely self-reported, with little in the way of official research.

Intrigued and desperate and most of all, exhausted, John opened YouTube and typed in “ASMR”. The screen quickly filled with results. He tapped on one of the first people who came up, a blonde woman with large eyes who absolutely _did not_ remind him of Mary. Remembering someone’s suggestion from the forum, he hit pause so he could go rummage out a pair of tangled earphones from the drawer in his bedside table. Returning, he plugged them into the tablet and settled down again on the living room couch, tapping play with a stubby and determined finger.

A woman’s hands came into view, stroking over a blanket. “Good evening,” she purred, her movements rhythmic and soothing. John couldn’t see her face in this video, just the tips of her hair, a crystal pendant, a striped shirt, and pale arms and manicured nails. She spoke softly, liltingly, with a slight accent – Russian, maybe.

“This video is a combination of sounds, especially sounds that are very often requested” (the “t” broke like an egg over the back of John’s skull), but seem to not have enough time in the videos. These sounds to me are quite...

_(shiver)_

intoxicating...”

 

2.

“John? John!”

“Jesus Christ!” John startled to consciousness so fast he cricked his neck. He was too slow to catch his tablet before it slid into the crack between the sofa cushions, and struggled a few seconds to disentangle himself from the earphones. He felt a little like a train had hit him.

“Not quite,” Sherlock said. He stood over John, half-frowning, Rosie on his hip. She gurgled a happy hello, waving around her stuffed bee toy, her golden hair in sleepy disarray. Sherlock was as well put-together as usual.

“Did you just come in?” John muttered, voice sleep-roughened, then, “What time is it?”, then, “Jesus!” when he noticed the arc of sunlight touching his sock-clad feet, then a final, “Oh God!” with a panicked, instinctual look in the direction of Rosie’s room.

“She’s fine. See?” Sherlock offered Rosie to John with a practised motion.

“Oh darling,” John said. Relief washed over him. Strong little arms wiggled around his neck, and John let himself just breath her in for a few seconds. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart, were you already awake? Was she crying?” he asked Sherlock. He looked around for the baby monitor, stomach dropping when he didn’t see it. Had he really forgotten it? Had he--

“You’re sitting on it,” Sherlock told him, not unkindly, bending down to pluck it from beneath John’s thigh. He put it on the coffee table; Rosie, intrigued by everything Sherlock did, immediately tried to wriggle around in John’s arms to retrieve and inspect it. “And she wasn’t crying. She _was_ awake, telling her stuffed animals all about her dreams, I’m sure.” Sherlock’s face and voice were soft. John grinned at this, but then ducked his eyes, embarrassed, hoping Sherlock hadn’t caught it.

“What are you doing here?” John asked instead, trying to pat down Rosie’s curls. She had given up the quest for the baby monitor in favour of giving John’s nose kisses with the bee.

Sherlock shrugged off his coat and threw it over the back of the armchair he usually occupied, but rather than sit, he walked around the place, like he hadn’t been there a million times and taken in its increasingly chaotic glory before.

“I texted you early this morning but you didn’t respond,” Sherlock said, minutely rearranging a vase on the windowsill. “It was urgent, so I thought I’d just--”

“’Which James Bonds all have moustaches?’” John read from his phone. It had still been in his pocket. He held it beyond Rosie’s reach when she tried to grab it.“‘What are Teletubby?’”

Sherlock spared him a half-grin. “Well? What _are_ Teletubby?” he asked, mock-serious, finally deigning to collapse into the armchair.

John’s smile faded a little. “You needn’t worry about me.” He made sure to look at Rosie while he said it; they were both British men, it was the only right and proper way to do it.

“I...” Sherlock sighed, drummed his fingers, sighed again. “Mycroft,” he said, face souring. “He told me about the sleeping pills. I—I thought perhaps in your exhaustion, you’d taken a few too many, and...”

It was, John thought, both endearing and horrifying to see Sherlock try to phrase something so _delicately_. Not for the first time since—well, shit, since _everything_ —John’s heart swelled. He and Sherlock had had their ups and downs – and what an understatement _that_ was – and he was still such a drama queen, but it was like everything that had happened, with Mary and Rosie and Eurus, had stripped away his hard outer layer. These days, Sherlock was patient, kinder – gentler. And maybe John was, too.

“I don’t have any sleeping pills,” John said. “And I wouldn’t do that,” he added, answering the question he thought Sherlock was really asking.

Sherlock’s gaze shifted to his from where it had been hovering on Rosie.

“You wanted to,” he said, his voice very quiet. “Not so long ago.”

“I think I’ve _wanted to_ for almost a decade.” John blew out a breath, readjusting Rosie’s seat on his lap. She was chattering to the bee in her arms and the stray stuffed bear on the sofa. John hadn’t meant to sound so bitter, and he didn’t want Rosie picking up on that. He forced a smile, but he knew it wasn’t convincing. “I would have been happy for anyone or anything to do it, as well.”

“But not anymore?” John hoped he was imagining the faint undercurrent of panic in Sherlock’s tone.

“No. ‘Your life is not your own.’ A wise man told me that. Well,” John corrected, “a wise man’s genius, deranged sister, quoting said wise man, whilst kidnapping me with the intention to drown me. But I think the point stands.”

That got John a rare, full smile, and who knows how long he and Sherlock might have looked at each other? It felt like their looks were getting longer and longer, and John didn’t know what to _do_ with that.

But external forces conspired against John’s finding out. “Rosie’s pooped,” he sighed.

“A minute and a half ago,” Sherlock corroborated, grinning like someone who wouldn’t be tasked with cleaning it. Git.

John shifted Rosie and staggered to his feet. God, he was too old to be sleeping on the sofa. “Put on the kettle, won’t you?” he called over his shoulder, carrying his daughter through to her room. He could hear a vague sound of assent, and a moment later, while he struggled with Rosie’s sleepsuit, the kettle went on.

“Wow,” John said, as the full flavour of the nappy hit him. Patience had taught him to let the smell wash over him, but one never really got used to it. “You could be a little more contrite,” he told Rosie, who was giggling, feckless, at his wrinkled nose, “about putting your dear old dad through _that_.”

“She knows her father’s a war veteran,” Sherlock rejoined, leaning cross-armed against the door frame.

“I defy the hardest soldier to--” But John was distracted by the pastel-pink clock on the wall. “Jesus!” It was past eight am. He was late for work. Rosie was late for crèche.

“It’s fine, I’ve already phoned Sarah and the school.” Sherlock’s tone was amused.

“You have?” John slumped a bit, reinvesting his attention on the poop-removal process. He was so relieved he wasn’t even irritated that Sherlock hadn’t bothered to consult him first. “I didn’t realise it was that late. You must be starving,” he told Rosie, but she looked no worse for wear. “Was Sarah alright with it?”

“Fine. She seemed happy that you’d gotten enough sleep _to_ oversleep. She did ask,” Sherlock added, with an unconvincing look of innocence, “if you had taken her advice. What does a fellow doctor prescribe for insomnia?” Sherlock wondered.

John’s punctuated his withering look with the none-too-gentle _thunk_ of the poop-filled nappy in the bin.

Sherlock grinned. “I’d better finish off the tea,” he said and disappeared back to the kitchen.

“I’m surrounded,” John told Rosie, powdering her butt, “by people who are not always as clever as they think they are. Yes, I am,” he cooed, as she giggled (baby powder being one of the many, many things that amused her). “Yes, I am!”

Sherlock had started on Rosie’s bottle by the time she and John emerged. He was a dab hand at it too, which made John feel happy in a very unsettling sort of way. John gratefully accepted the bottle and carried Rosie back to the sofa, Sherlock trailing behind with their cups.

“So what did you do, to sleep?” Sherlock asked, sipping his tea, eyes on his phone.

“Uh, I was just watching YouTube videos,” John said. This wasn’t a lie, but John suddenly felt self-conscious. The original forum thread about ASMR had been filled with comments from people who either thought it was a weird fetish thing and those who swore there wasn’t anything sexy about it. John honestly didn’t know what to think. It hadn’t _felt_ sexual, but how would it look to outsiders – falling asleep to a gorgeous woman whispering to you? It was, at the very least, a little odd.

“Any videos in particular?” Sherlock asked, after a moment. He pocketed his phone.

“You know how it goes,” John said, adjusting Rosie. He felt another twinge of guilt about how eagerly she was feeding. “I started with a funny cat video and ended up learning how to build a naturally-filtered swimming pool.”

“Hm,” Sherlock hummed, which was dangerous territory.

“Would you mind?” John said, half-up from the sofa already, proffering Rosie to Sherlock. She wiggled her approval at this change of hands. “I just want to use the loo.”

He was not, John told himself, latching the bathroom door, fleeing. He was not. He had to pee and freshen up. If he didn’t do it now, while Sherlock was still here, who knows when he’d get a chance? A one-year-old could keep one surprisingly busy.

He should just have told Sherlock, John reflected, rinsing the toothpaste from his mouth. He’d made it weirder by lying. Now Sherlock probably thought he’d drifted off mid-wank, like the middle-aged man he was fast becoming.

John stared at his reflection in the vanity mirror above the sink. He looked exactly like a forty-something who had slept properly for the first time in weeks, on a sofa: dishevelled, a bit grey, a bit pasty. It had been months since he’d gone out. He spent his days working or helping Sherlock with cases; his nights and weekends he spent holed up with Rosie, or taking her to play parks or out on walks if the weather was alright. He knew several children shows’ tunes by heart. He hadn’t watched a rugby match, drank a whiskey, or flirted outrageously in ages.

Maybe, John thought, Sarah had been more right than John had been willing to admit. He needed to get out there again. A bit of fun, yeah? He wouldn’t need to resort to ASMR for _his_ social bonding.

John nodded to his reflection, resolute. He wouldn’t need to listen to ASMR again, and Sherlock wouldn’t instinctively feel the need to pry, and so would never be able to guess that John’s very first thought upon hearing the blonde woman’s “Good evening” had been how much he wished it was _Sherlock_ whispering in his ear.

No sir.

The ASMR thing would be John’s little secret.

 

3.

Time, as it was wont to do when left to its own devices, wore on. A fortnight passed, edging them into the winter season. John forsook ASMR and slept little. But it wasn’t until Sarah started making snarky comments again that John followed through on his resolution, and “went out”.

At his age, “going out” was mostly visiting a local pub on a Friday night in a better set of clothing than usual, so that was what John did.

But first, he had to stop off at Baker Street, to drop Rosie off at her most trusted babysitter. Mrs Hudson greeted him at the door before he could even knock. She was a vision in lilac and smelled strongly of freshly baked cookies.

“Ooh, how _is_ the little darling!” she exclaimed, immediately reaching for Rosie. Rosie, who had been settling into a real sulk (probably because John had changed out of four different sets of clothing, and gotten more irate with himself after each change) lit up like a string of Christmas lights.

“Better for seeing you, I think,” John admitted, trying to grit his teeth against the flare-up of insecurity. He wasn’t sure how well he fared, honestly. He handed Rosie over, feeling the strangest emotional wobble as he did so. “We’ve been having a row.”

Mrs Hudson tutted. “Has daddy been treating this little princess appallingly?” she asked Rosie, who was the epitome of Bambi eyes. Her bottom lip might even have trembled.

John hadn’t realised that ninety percent of parenting would be guilt, which flooded him afresh. “Maybe I should--” he started.

“Oh, nonsense with you!” Mrs Hudson said. “She just needs a little girl time. Don’t you, sweetie?”

“Excellent idea,” came Sherlock’s voice, followed a second later by the man himself. He wound a red scarf around his upturned coat collar as he jogged down the stairs. He swooped in to plop a kiss on Rosie’s head (she squealed with delight) before giving John a once-over. “I can see why she’s upset,” he said cryptically.

“Right,” John said, deciding not to take the bait. “So I’ll try to be back in a couple of hours,” he told Mrs Hudson. “Three,” he added, trying to convince himself as he said it that what he _really_ wanted at seven pm on this Friday night was to spend three hours of it somewhere other than bed. “Maybe two. I’ll probably be back before nine. Or half-eight.”

Mrs Hudson spared them both the embarrassment of responding to _that_ , instead carrying Rosie off to her flat. John watched his daughter go with trepidation. She didn’t cry for him.

“You’re not a bad parent,” Sherlock remarked.

“I’m a shit parent,” John sighed, resigned.

“You really aren’t.”

John gave Sherlock a look. “So where are you off to?” he asked instead, taking in his posh ensemble: the big coat, the bespoke suit, the navy shirt, the fancy shoes. Granted, John was hardly an expert on these things, but Sherlock looked even better than usual.

“I’m guessing that pub on Henrietta,” Sherlock said. “That’s where you usually go, isn’t it?”

“You’re coming along?” This was news to John.

Sherlock fiddled with his phone. “Unless you’d rather I didn’t?”

“No,” John said. “Not ‘no’,” he amended, when Sherlock’s eyes snapped up, “I mean, it’s just...you hate pubs.”

“I don’t hate pubs,” Sherlock countered immediately, which was an outrageous lie.

“You’ve called pubs ‘cesspools of filth’ within my hearing twice,” John pointed out, amused despite himself and Sherlock’s snobbery.

“That’s an exaggeration,” Sherlock said, but he was frowning.

“You said the people who go to pubs are too stupid to burn if you set them on fire.”

“Well,” Sherlock said. When nothing presented itself to refute John’s disbelief, he switched tracks. “Are you really that adverse to company?”

John’s smile faded a little. “No.”

“Then I’ll tag along, shall I?” Sherlock held the front door open for him, expectant.

“If you start a fight, I’m leaving,” John said and pushed past him. He could have sworn Sherlock crowded the doorway on purpose, so he’d be forced to squeeze past him, but _why_?

 _Obvious_ , he could hear Sherlock sneer in his head and yeah, had this been anyone other than Sherlock, John would assume he was being flirted with, _but it was Sherlock_.

John stifled the vast array of complicated emotions that welled up in response to _that_ and checked his watch instead. “If we hurry,” he said, doing the mixture of maths, faith and alchemy that every Londoner reliant on the underground did, “we can--”

“Oh, no mind,” Sherlock said, pulling himself up to his full height and—well, there was no other word for it— _preening_. A set of car keys had materialised in his hand. An Aston Martin logo keychain dangled prominently from them. Sherlock was grinning, half-naughty school child, half incorrigible demon. “I’ve organised transport.”

 

4.

John let out a sigh that was half-longing, half-regret and one hundred percent nascent mid-life crisis.

“You enjoyed that,” Sherlock remarked from the passenger seat. They’d pulled into a parking ahead of a Honda, but not even the Soho crowd’s cussing could drown out John’s temporary moment of bliss. The Governor’s Duck was a hive of activity on the corner, but John could have cared less.

“I really, really did,” John laughed.

“It’s a fine machine.”

“Hmm,” John agreed.

“Especially from the front of the car.”

That got a laugh from John. He wouldn’t have thought, back when it happened, that he would be able to laugh about that time; yet here they were. Still, John would be lying if he pretended the cuts didn’t still bleed from time to time.

They sat in silence for a few moments. John was watching the few patrons lurking outside in the chill air, pretending he could see himself among them, beer in hand, laughing insincerely at old jokes he’d heard and made before. Enjoying it.

“You don’t want to go in, do you?” Sherlock asked, after another minute passed in silence.

“God, no,” John admitted.

Sherlock looked at his knuckles, flexing his long fingers. When he spoke it sounded a bit as if he was forcing the words out, like trying to jam together puzzle pieces that didn’t fit. “Is it...Mary? I mean. Are you nervous because... You haven’t been with...anyone since--?”

“No,” John said quickly. He was glad for the dark interior of the car. He cleared his throat. “I mean. Yes? I haven’t. Been with.” He cleared his throat again. He didn’t know why he admitted that, why he thought it was important to say that. Sherlock wouldn’t care. He didn’t care about stuff like that, right? Right. So why was John so nervous? Sherlock was just trying to be supportive. Right?

_Right._

“I’m not here to...that.” John sighed at himself.

“Then why are you here?” Sherlock was looking at him, puzzled.

“I don’t know. To convince myself I still can? No,” he thought. He blew out a breath. “To convince myself I still _want_ to. Yeah. Shit. Well?” John asked Sherlock, when the man stared at him, frowning. “Do you want to drive home? I mean, Baker Street,” he amended hastily.

Sherlock shook his head and opened his door. “Home, John? We haven’t even gone in yet. Come on.”

John watched Sherlock disembark and then do a slow, casual about-turn on the pavement, presumably taking in the night. He sighed again. “Shit,” he muttered, and got out, following Sherlock’s lean form into the pub.

It was crowded and noisy inside. John scrummed through to the bar counter, losing sight of Sherlock in the process, but he had the car keys so he at least knew Sherlock would have to come find him. It took five minutes to get a drink order in, and then another five for it to arrive. John pinged his interest off one or two women while he waited, but he wasn’t committed enough to pursue it. Had it been five years ago, he thought, he would have been well on his way to a late night and a phone number by now.

“Thanks!” John shouted to the bartender, taking the two beers from her. He craned around for Sherlock, but he was nowhere to be seen. John strongly considered abandoning both drinks and making a break for it, but then someone said, “Need some help with those?”

It was one of the women whose eyes he’d caught; tall, dark-haired, early forties. She had a raspy smoker’s voice and absolutely no business looking as good in red as she did. She was smiling a very particular smile, and despite himself, John felt the stirrings of a challenge accepted as she sidled closer.

“Thanks, but it’s hard enough to get drunk after forty without sharing your alcohol,” he shouted over the din, with a self-deprecating smile.

“Tell me about it,” she returned. She leaned against the bar and gave him a very obvious up-and-down. “Who’s the other beer for?”

“My friend, who has disappeared.” John was still looking around for Sherlock.

“That’s very reckless of her.” The woman flashed a lascivious smile. “Abandoning you like that. She might never get you back.”

John chuckled. “It’s a he, and he might let me go more easily than you’d think.” Which was so true, John felt a flush of depression at the thought.

“I see.” The woman’s interest withdrew as suddenly as a tide pulling back, and John, replaying the conversation, realised what she thought he meant: that he was gay and looking for his ‘friend’.

For a second, John could see himself correcting her mistake, giving her the other beer, and going back to the booth she’d inevitably be able to conjure up. He could imagine exchanging pleasantries in that faux-intimate setting, getting drunker and drunker, and finally suggesting a cab and her flat or his. The sex would be good. The morning after would be brief. He wouldn’t even have to worry about her wanting to meet Rosie; she wasn’t here for that, and good for her.

“Yeah,” John found himself saying. “You know what? I’ve got to dash. Here, my treat.” He deposited the beers back on the counter and pushed them over. “Sorry,” he added, though for what, John hardly knew.

The street outside, though still busy, was an oasis of calm compared to the pub. John pulled in a few deep, cold breaths, then made his way to where the Vantage was parked, thinking he’d just text Sherlock and wait for him. He felt cranky: annoyed with himself, annoyed with Sherlock for disappearing, annoyed with the woman in the red dress. Mostly himself, though.

Forty-four going on eighty, he thought, sour. He only noticed the figure when he was nearly on top of him. Sherlock leaned against the car’s bonnet, apparently lost in thought. The bright tip of a cigarette glowed from near his hand.

“There you are.” To John’s surprise, this came out more relieved than annoyed. Sherlock’s head snapped up.

“I—what?” He looked surprised to see John.

“I spent an unholy amount of money on two beers, and you’d left. Unbelievable.” But there was no heat in it. John commandeered the cigarette and joined Sherlock against the hood. He took a deep drag of it, pulling a face at the taste.

“You smoke?” Still surprise.

“God no,” said John, “awful habit.” He took another drag.

There was a moment of silence. “Turns out I do hate pubs,” Sherlock remarked.

John snorted and handed the cigarette back. “I did tell you. Everything alright?” It didn’t escape his notice, the cigarette. He wasn’t that daft – not quite, not anymore.

Sherlock took two drags to answer. “Yes,” he decided. He gave John a half-smile, more remote than anything, before dropping and stubbing out the cigarette with his shoe.

“Want to drive back?” John asked him.

“We can stay if you want.” Sherlock said this with a manner of resolve that would befit much graver situations, like volunteering to take the One Ring to Mount Doom.

“Yeah, no,” said John, and jingled the keys.

Sherlock hesitated, then grinned. “In that case, you’d better drive,” he said, “as it’s the only action you’ll be getting tonight.”

John snorted. “Oh, very clever, you and Sarah both,” he muttered, unlocking the car and sliding in behind the wheel.

It wasn’t even half past eight by the time they were back at Baker Street. Sherlock held the door open so John could squeeze past with their Chinese take-out. Mrs Hudson, with only marginally pursed lips, refrained from comment as she came out with Rosie. Sherlock took over the bags so John could take Rosie, who seemed happier to see him than their hour’s parting really deserved.

“Did you have a nice time, darling?” John asked her, cuddling her close. She made those “uh, uh, uh” noise that babies seem to make for no apparent reason. He absolutely did not have a lump in his throat. “Did you and Mrs Hudson have a good time?”

“We’ve been catching up Love Island,” said Mrs Hudson, planting a firm (and it had to be said somewhat wet) kiss on Rosie’s head. Rosie grinned a wide, toothless grin. “I was just about to give her her bath. I could--”

“No, that’s fine,” John said, too quickly. He chuckled at himself. “I rarely get the chance anymore. The crèche’s usually given her her bath by the time I pick her up.”

Sherlock had arranged the Chinese on the dining table when John came up, Rosie chattering in his ear. Without comment, Sherlock took her over and got her settled in her high chair so John could peel off his coat and turn on the kettle. He was halfway through busily arranging their cups and calling down to Mrs Hudson to hear if she was joining them when he realised how automatic it had all been. How natural.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked, looking up from where he was showing Rosie a set of soft blocks. She regarded the bright purple side of one of these blocks with a frown of concentration that was ruined only somewhat by the fact that she had a Fruitloop stuck to her forehead.

John sighed and filled their mugs, carrying them to the table. “Nothing. We’re a very well-oiled machine, aren’t we?”

Sherlock frowned, and for a moment he and Rosie looked eerily identical. Not for the first time, it occurred to John that Rosie could easily pass for Sherlock’s, what with the curls and the blue eyes. And not for the first time, this thought made John _feel_ things: a passing suspicion about Mary and Sherlock that was easily dispelled, a strange jealousy about the passing suspicion that wasn’t so easy to shake off, and a desperate warmth around John’s midsection at the thought of Sherlock as being a part of their family.

“Well-oiled,” Sherlock repeated, almost to himself, rearranging Rosie’s blocks in a fresh configuration. He didn’t meet John’s eyes.

John frowned, scooping sweet and sour pork onto their plates. It took a moment to click. The lab on that winter day felt very, very far from where they were now, John dishing up food while Sherlock entertained his daughter.

But perhaps for Sherlock, it didn’t feel that long ago. John generally tried not to think about that time, afraid that he’d be filled with the same weight of dread, terror, loss and betrayal that had filled him then... and the anger, he couldn’t forget the anger. Seeing Sherlock fall was right up there with seeing Mary dying. But at least, in some ways, often _bad_ ways, John had moved on from Sherlock’s “death”. John suddenly wondered what it had been like to walk back into a life that had gone on years without you.

“Yeah,” John said, clearing his throat a little. “I mean, we work together well.”

Sherlock looked at him then, a searching look that finally resolved itself in a little nod. “Yes, we do,” he agreed, accepting his plate and scooping up a bite his fork.

John wanted to say something more – God, something _meaningful_ – but Mrs Hudson came up then, and the conversation moved on. They were updated on Mrs Turner’s newest lover, Mr Chatterjee’s move back to Birmingham, and the continued absence of tenants for 221C. Mrs Hudson quizzed Sherlock on John’s driving ability (“Capable”, Sherlock said, with a little smirk that made John nervously swallow a larger bite of food than he’d intended), John on his working relationship with Sarah (“We’re, uh, amicable, yeah,” John had replied, suddenly worrying that they weren’t), and Rosie’s favourite teacher at the crèche (“Ms Plummer,” he and Sherlock had answered at the same time). When Mrs Hudson finally went to “bed” (coincidentally at the same time Geordie Shore started), John felt characteristically like he’d been through an interrogation.

“Is Mycroft paying her, d’you think?” John asked Sherlock, picking a babbling Rosie up. Sherlock was clearing the table with as much enthusiasm as you’d expect someone like Sherlock to have for such a mundane task.

“He wouldn’t need to,” Sherlock responded dryly.

John snorted. Rosie was a still very alert weight in his arms, craning to follow Sherlock’s progress around the kitchen. “Well, thank you for a lovely evening,” John said, “but I’d better get her home, bathed and to bed.”

“You could bathe her here,” Sherlock said, busy at the sink, his back to John. “Sleep over.”

John was sorely tempted. He was tired, and he knew he was only about an hour away from Rosie trying to defeat her own exhaustion through sheer force of will and lots of crying. But if he was honest?

If he was honest with himself, John wanted his own bed, and he wanted his tablet, and he wanted to listen to some ASMR and finally, hopefully, get some sleep, and put this disaster of an “evening out” behind him and just accept his middling middle-ageness in the privacy of his own home.

“Thanks,” John said, meaning it, “but her routine...”

Sherlock had turned around, face inscrutable. John couldn’t tell whether Sherlock believed him, and he felt weirdly guilty about it. He should just have told Sherlock his real motivation, John decided. But try as he might, as Sherlock walked him and Rosie down to the foyer, _John just could not get_ the words out of his mouth. That fear was back, that somehow Sherlock would hear “ASMR” and immediately deduce that lonely, empty hole inside John and how John wished in some inexpressible way that _Sherlock_ would be the one to fill it.

Lord, he was a mess. Really, John thought, pulling on his coat and watching Sherlock kiss Rosie on each cheek, his stormy eyes soft, he was doing Sherlock a favour by not being completely honest with him. He had his own things to deal with. He didn’t need John’s baggage, too. John resisted the urge to glance back at 221B’s doorstep as he started off in the direction of the tube station, the sidewalk still busy, cars humming past on the road. Rosie chattered at him, their earlier row forgotten. She was soft and warm and safe in his arms – a reason if John ever needed one. John would work out his own stuff, and he’d raise his daughter, and it would all be fine, he decided firmly. He’d get the sleep he needed, build the life he intended to, and it. Would. Be. _Great_.

Just great. And no one would have to know how _wrong_ it felt to leave Sherlock behind on nights like this...least of all Sherlock himself.

 

5.

Listening to ASMR again after two weeks felt a lot like sinking into a hot bath. John listened to another video by the same woman he’d listened to first – an ASMRtist, as they called themselves – and was out cold before the video was even halfway through. He slept long and deeply and woke up feeling refreshed for the first time in a fortnight.

For the next three weeks, ASMR became a part of John’s daily routine. The initial rush - “brain tingles” - wore off, but the relaxation persisted, and Maria, Emma and a few others nursed John through several bouts of insomnia. He picked up a few extra shifts at the clinic, spent more time outdoors with Rosie even as the weather continued to cool down, and helped Sherlock with two cases. John didn’t even resent the fact that in both cases, Sherlock largely used him as a sounding board to riddle together a series of clues while he, John, made them dinner and lunch respectively.

Yes, things were going better for John Watson than they had in a long time. He had put the strongest of his strange feelings about Sherlock to bed, he was working hard, his daughter was happy, and yes, even _he_ was happy.

And then he found Sherlock’s ASMR channel.

It was on a Thursday during lunchtime. John had gabbed the gab with Sarah in the clinic’s tiny staff kitchen before pulling out his packed lunch and his tablet, looking for a video to line up for that night. He had gotten into the habit of frequenting the forum that first put him onto ASMR – even going so far as to create an account, though he rarely commented – and he was browsing through this when a post caught his attention. OMG, YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE THIS GUYS VOICE, the title read.

The poster was a forum admin. John had liked most of her previous recommendations, so he tapped on in. She had linked a YouTube video and tagged it “new”, “male”, “accent [british]”, “soft-spoken”. More bored than curious, he tapped through to the video.

The screen showed a man’s arms resting, large hands folded, on what looked like a desk. John could see little beyond the man’s torso, just his white button-up shirt, and an indistinguishable sliver of background on either side. Still, John had the strangest sense that he knew where this was—that he knew...

The man had moved his hands, just enough to free one of them so he could rub at the cuff of his shirt in a deliberate way, brushing the material between his forefinger and thumb. The hands were familiar to John, with their long fingers, pale skin, indelicate knuckles and veiny texture. He’d recognise them anywhere. They were Sherlock’s hands.

And if there had been any doubt about it, any doubt at all, it was dispelled the next moment when a deep voice rumbled, “Today we’ll be considering a favourite topic of mine. Tobacco,” Sherlock said, moving to speak into what John assumed was off-screen microphones to the left and right, “ash. Forty-three different kinds of it...”

John almost dropped his tablet when Sarah returned, another of their co-workers with her. John hastily made his excuses and returned to his office where, for the next three hours, he tried to ignore the lure of the tablet in his satchel.

John was panicking, of course. Since when did Sherlock listen to or make ASMR videos? John hadn’t noticed anything like that when they still lived together and thought he was sure he’d have seen the kind of equipment ASMRtists use around the Baker Street flat if Sherlock had taken it up since then. No, John decided, checking blood pressure and prescribing antibiotics for UTIs, this had to be either a mistake or a trick.

He was first out of the office that afternoon. The five-minute walk to Rosie’s crèche became three, and they made the five-twenty train to Hackney. Rosie, perhaps sensing John’s mood, was a little more exuberant than usual, but John felt only a little guilty when he parked her in front of a children’s show so he could pull up the video again, this time with clamshell headphones on (acquired a week before from Amazon). She seemed content with Shaun the Sheep’s adventures over his distracted company anyway.

The video was in John’s history on YouTube. He tapped through to the channel itself – Casebook ASMR. It had just over five hundred subscribers – not a lot, by ASMRtist standards. John scrolled back. There were about half a dozen videos. The first one had been posted several months ago, at least two months before John had listened to his first ASMR video.

This puzzled John, and it rather put the fork in some of his grander conspiracy theories. Maybe, he thought, returning to the video itself (it was the newest one), Sherlock had stumbled across ASMR the same way he, John, had. It didn’t really surprise John that Sherlock would start a channel himself. A captive audience? What more could a genius drama queen want or need?

Feeling mean-spirited for thinking that, John tapped play and settled back on the couch, his attention riveted on the screen.

Sherlock’s torso was back in view. With his earphones on, John could hear the satisfying crinkle of Sherlock’s clothing as he moved. There were background sounds like cars and rain, but Sherlock’s voice – smooth and deep and soft – easily occupied all of John’s attention. His enunciation sent shivers of relaxation down John’s neck and spine. It felt like Sherlock was in the room with him, delicately enumerating the qualities and characteristics of different kinds of tobacco ash into the shells of John’s ears.

John only made it to the eight-minute mark (“Rothman International”) before he abruptly pulled his headphones off, switched off his tablet and for good measure, shut both away in a kitchen drawer. He leaned against the counter a moment, running a hand over his face and hair.

John felt... John _felt_. That was the problem. There was no denying that listening to Sherlock had edged from “relaxing” and “tingly” into something that was very gently arousing, and there was no denying that John had really _liked_ that, and there was no denying that his _liking_ it was a very, _very_ bad idea.

Forty-four-years old and turned on by a whisper! John thought blackly, but even as he thought it, he knew that wasn’t quite it – wasn’t quite _all_ of it. It was Sherlock, John had thought, irritated, when he had to push past Sherlock at Baker Street a few weeks ago; and this was _still Sherlock_. John had never really been able to pin down exactly what Sherlock felt, and _how_ he felt it. And he’d never really been able to pin down exactly how _he_ felt about Sherlock, and how he felt about Sherlock _feeling things._

Flustered, annoyed, and most of all, lonely, John distracted himself by making a start on a rudimentary dinner for himself and Rosie. He had just checked that Rosie was still alive (she was, and enjoying Peppa Pig with alacrity) when there was a knock on the door. John turned down the oven and moved the dish to the table, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

John checked the peephole and was rewarded with a close-up of Sherlock’s face as he peered back at him. Of course it would be Sherlock. Few other people visited John at home. Greg sometimes came over, usually on weekends, and Molly had visited once or twice. But mostly, that was just how the universe worked, right? Murphy’s law and all that.

John opened the door, vaguely relieved that Sherlock – who had a key if he needed it – hadn’t walked in on him mid-ASMR. He’d need to be more careful in future, John thought, just a second or so ahead of another voice saying, _But we aren’t going to listen to Sherlock’s channel again, right?_

Right.

Sherlock looked as he usually did, and he gave John his customary, minute up-and-down eye flick that meant he was cataloguing what John had been up to, possibly so he could use it to embarrass, startle or derail him later on. John accepted it like one accepted things like death and taxes and stood aside to let Sherlock enter.

“Bad day?” Sherlock asked, unwinding his red scarf with one hand, a bottle of wine in the other.

“Middling,” John said, trying to keep the last hour out of his voice. God knew how successful he was. Not very, judging by Sherlock’s frown. “You brought wine,” he said instead.

Sherlock handed it over. A year ago he probably would have said “Obvious”, and John’s plan to annoy him into other topics of conversation would have worked, but while it wasn’t possible for Sherlock to be smarter than he already was, _he actually seemed to be more observant_. Proving to John that there both was a God and that he or she hated him personally.

“Isn’t it customary?” Sherlock asked, following John halfway into the kitchen, one hand pocketed, the other drumming a beat onto his thigh.

“Chateau Fongrave Black Merlot Bordeaux, 2008?” John read the label.

“Is that good?” Sherlock asked, sounding genuinely puzzled.

John chuckled, rummaging around a drawer for a stopper. “No idea. Mary could have told you.” She had been a real wine snob.

He had uncorked the bottle and was surprised, in turning around, to find Sherlock still regarding him.

“What?” he asked, thinking that there was no way Sherlock could possibly deduce--

“You’ve met someone,” Sherlock decided, with narrowed eyes.

John was so surprised (and relieved) at this proclamation that he laughed. And then he laughed at Sherlock’s startled expression, and then at his annoyance.

“You’re funny,” John told him, fetching a couple of plates for him and Sherlock, and the little Tupperware bowl he used for Rosie.

Sherlock, apparently deciding to pick his battles (!), disappeared into the living room and returned a moment later with Rosie. She hiccuped on his hip, stuffed bee in hand, giving a little squeal when she saw John.

“Yes, hello, darling,” John told her, leaning in for a kiss. He was only a little surprised to notice how close this brought him to Sherlock, and how comfortable that proximity was, after all. “Are you a hungry little bee?” he asked her, turning to dish up.

“I think we’re both hungry little bees, John, thanks for asking,” said Sherlock dryly, pulling Rosie’s high chair closer to the table. She and the bee toy both went onto it. Sherlock idled, picking up and immediately discarding an old newspaper.

John snorted, but added an extra dollop of cottage pie to Sherlock’s plate. “Glasses are in the cupboard,” John told him, indicating the kitchen unit behind him. As a testament to his dad reflexes, he caught the uncannily well-aimed bee toy just before it could land in the middle of the pie.

“No need for that, thank you,” he told Rosie, placing the bee toy out of reach for the minute and smartly replacing it with her bowl of food. Rosie gave a happy, feckless giggle that was seventy-five percept Mary.

Sherlock poured them each a glass. The wine was good, smooth and fruity. John waited until Sherlock had settled before he offered Rosie a spoonful of food. Apparently, she was satisfied enough that Sherlock wasn’t about to do anything interesting outside of her range of sight that she ate without complaint or distraction, little fists banging on the table. It was only when a bite dribbled on to her shirt that John realised he’d forgotten the bib. Ah well.

“So?” Sherlock asked, sipping his wine and considering John with a curiously chill look.

“So what?” asked John, nonplussed. He ducked a few bites of his own meal before an unhappy squeak from Rosie directed him back to hers.

“Who is she?” Sherlock watched John.

“What do--?” John clicked his tongue. “I haven’t met anyone. I don’t know why you think that, honestly. No,” John said because Sherlock had opened his mouth and was surely planning on telling him _exactly_ how he’d deduced this. “I don’t _want_ to know. But I haven’t.”

“Someone you know already then?” Sherlock asked, between a mouthful of food.

John snorted. “No,” he said, but with no conviction. Because while John automatically denied it, his brain conjured an image of Sherlock that night in Baker Street, his back to him, asking him to sleep over.

But they weren’t like that, John thought. He was only mildly surprised to find that he wasn’t pretending he didn’t _want_ it to be like that anymore and wasn’t quite sure when the change had occurred.

But, of course, they _could be_. They could be _like that_.

This thought was so sudden, simple and straightforward that John dropped his fork.

“Ah,” Sherlock said, grim, “it _is_ someone you know then.”

John stared at Sherlock, very aware of their history, very aware of every “we’re not a couple” and “I’m not actually gay” and “he’s my best friend”. There was a lot of emotional territory to traverse between all of _that_ and John realising, with complete and sudden clarity, that he now wanted _more_ than that; and if there ever was to be _something_ , they’d have to cover that ground, and they’d hate it, but it would be too important not to do it.

“Is it Sarah?” Sherlock asked, with breezy certainty.

Of course, John realised, stomach plunging, he was assuming that Sherlock wanted what he did. The truth was that John didn’t know _what_ Sherlock wanted. He’d been so sure, over the years, that Sherlock wasn’t like that. He remembered some of the things Sherlock had said...but John also remembered all the times he _hadn’t_ said anything.

He remembered the wedding speech. He remembered Sherlock crowding the doorway. Following him on dates. Sherlock in the boot of Mrs Hudson’s car, strung out and frightened. Sherlock with his sister. Sherlock’s face at the top of the well. Sherlock curled into a protective ball against his fists.

John picked up his fork and, feeling a little dazed, fed Rosie another bite before he said, frowning, “Sarah and I are work colleagues,” remembering as he said it how he once corrected Sherlock’s dunce friend when Sherlock introduced John to him as his friend.

“What about you?” John asked, clearing his throat. The question knocked the wind right of our Sherlock’s sails: his mouth clicked shut and he frowned, casting John a puzzled and somewhat suspicious look.

“What about me?” He had abandoned his fork.

John sighed and gave a half-smile at Sherlock’s defensiveness. He kept his eyes on Rosie; not a hard task, as she was losing interest in her dinner, probably distracted by the turn in the tone of their conversation.

“Since we’re talking love lives,” John said. “Did you ever get in touch with Irene? You said you text.”

Sherlock picked up his fork again, but his interest in eating was apparently dwindling apace to Rosie’s.

“We do, sometimes.”

“And that’s all?” There was no heat in the question because John had let go of expectation. Therapy was paying off in all sorts of unexpected ways. It was vexing.

“Yes, as she’s gay, that’s all.” Sherlock opened his mouth as if to say more, but then merely took a bite, keeping his eyes on his food.

John chewed through two bites before he said, “That doesn’t mean it couldn’t work out. I mean,” he amended, when he felt Sherlock’s sharp eyes snap to him, “she was certainly intrigued by you. Sexuality isn’t always...either or, right?”

“Speaking from personal experience, then, John?” Sherlock’s tone was hard and sarcastic and maybe even a little taunting. Sherlock wanted him to drop it, and who knows? A year ago, a month ago, a _week_ ago, John might have.

But now?

John met Sherlock’s eyes. He’d once thought them inscrutable, but it was easier all the time to see the kernel behind the shell. “Yes,” John said. “As I’m sure you’ve deduced, James Sholto and I were... Well.” John fed Rosie a last bite, knowing that if he attempted any more, she’d just find clever ways to outmanoeuvre him. “We... Wanted to, I guess.” John stared at the table, unseeing. He was remembering their time together in Afghanistan. The potential. The missed moments, the lingering smiles, the warmth John had carried around inside himself. “But circumstances...” John’s smile felt bitter on his face. “We never...” He shook his head and pushed his plate away.

“Is he the one, then?” Sherlock asked, after a long moment.

John smiled at his persistence. “No. We had our moment, and we missed it.”

Sherlock stared at John. “Are you sure?” Maybe John imagined it, but Sherlock’s voice sounded gruff. “You’re...unattached, now. At the wedding...he was very--”

“No.” John smiled to try to soften the word, but judging by Rosie’s unhappy burble, he guess it failed to do so. “I’ll always admire him, but, no.” _Because it’s you now, I think_ , John added to himself, half-dreading, half-hoping that Sherlock would _see_ that about him and answer his unasked question once and for all: did he, Sherlock, feel the same? Could they...?

But he didn’t. Sherlock nodded distantly and dropped his eyes.

The conversation didn’t recover. They exchanged generalities; Sherlock offered to help with the dishes in a half-hearted way, but John batted him away, and after a short sit in the living room, their attention taken up by Rosie, Sherlock left, murmuring a goodnight that sounded like he was already all the way back to Baker Street.

Peering through his curtains at Sherlock clambering into the Vantage, John was unhappy to find that it felt even worse watching Sherlock leave than it did to leave him behind. John stood there long after the car had disappeared around the corner, only snapping out of it when Rosie crawled past him to the kitchen, no doubt to pursue mortal injury. John snatched her up, bounced her until she stopped crying about his impeding her plans, then got her to bed. Favoured by the gods, she dropped off quickly, leaving John at loose ends as the night ticked on.

John showered and pottered about after, but of course, it was only a matter of time before he returned to the kitchen drawer. He stared at the tablet where it lay for a minute, wondering what the hell he was doing and what the hell he was _going_ to do; then sighed and retired to the couch, sitting so he wouldn’t drop off with the new headphones still on, Rosie’s baby monitor facing him on the coffee table.

John skipped the tobacco ash video and scrolled through the others, finally deciding on one featuring their old mantelpiece skull. To John’s disappointment, it was a no-talking video, and the only parts of Sherlock that were visible were his hands. The camera was positioned above the surface of Sherlock’s desk. Sherlock spent the better part of a half hour tapping, scratching and scritching various parts and planes of the skull, turning it around delicately and, honestly, hypnotically, in his large hands. He alternated harder sounds with softer and deeper ones. John could faintly hear his breathing.

Sleepy, John turned off his tablet and retired to bed, feeling guilty in a non-specific way – like he’d been caught doing something lewd. It had started raining outside. He turned over a few times, finally settling on his side. He noticed for the first time that he still slept on _a_ side, rather than in the middle of the bed; and then, unbidden, an image of Sherlock came to him, tousled in his pyjamas. What would it be like, he wondered, to share a bed with Sherlock?

John sighed and turned his back on the space next to him. It was no use wondering – he was unlikely to ever find out. Maybe like he and Sholto, he and Sherlock had missed their moment; but more realistically, such a moment had just never existed, because Sherlock didn’t feel that for him, and John’s loneliness was making him imagine things.

Nobody felt _that_ for him anymore, John thought, stomach churning. And honestly, could he blame them?

John’s ghosts were very loud that night.

 

6.

A week passed. Sherlock was quiet, but whereas their silences had been companionable before, this time it felt different. After a bit of a think, John decided it must be because Sherlock wasn’t texting him. The vague feeling of guilt was back. It nagged at John. He carefully recounted their conversation in quiet moments – okay, maybe the word he was looking for was “obsessed” - he “obsessed” over their last conversation - but he didn’t know why or where it had gone wrong, exactly.

Unless.

The “unless” came about the Wednesday after. John had taken his lunch to a local park. The December chill was significant enough that it meant he had the pick of the prime benches. He took one next to the little splash of pond, a steely and unattractive grey under the overcast sky. John burrowed deeply into his coat and scarf and didn’t even pretend to consider eating; just sat there and brooded on an empty stomach, freezing his arse off.

Their conversation had become uncomfortable after his confession about James Sholto. That was what John kept coming back to. At the time, he didn’t really consider that Sherlock might have an adverse reaction to having had a closeted whatever-sexual (John was vague on terms, something Ella would no doubt have an opinion about) roommate, friend and colleague for more than five years. Sherlock had never appeared to have an issue with gay people – he treated everyone the same, which is to say, dismissively.

Unless...

Unless, of course, it _had_ bothered him, and John had been so wrapped up in his own realisation about Sherlock that he hadn’t noticed it.

John was glad for the cold because it pretty much stopped the hot flush of embarrassment and horror dead in its tracks.

Lord, how horrifying was that...and how depressing. Maybe, John admitted to himself – _maybe_ – he’d fostered more hope about how/what Sherlock felt about him than he’d wanted to consider. Maybe a part of him believed, as he relaxed into the reassuring timbre of Sherlock’s whispered voice night after night, that he, John, had a shot and wasn’t just pining away like the middle-aged fart he was. John kept returning to Sherlock’s best man speech, to Sherlock comforting him after everything, his hand trembling where it rested on the back of John’s neck...

But there were so many other memories, of course. _I don’t have friends._ _You should have seen the look on your face. Alone protects me._

John returned to the office in a daze. Taking pity on him, Sarah offered to take his two o’clock and directed him to the kitchen to thaw. John felt a pang of guilt at her concern. She probably thought it was about Mary. God, Mary! His wife hadn’t even been dead a year, and here her dearest, cheating husband was, pining for the only other person he’d really loved in the last five years. What would she have said?

But John suspected the answer to that; had, ever since he fell into a fitful sleep in a too-big bed the week before. She had known, must have known. Her more caustic remarks made sense to him now. He wondered suddenly whether they’d made sense to Sherlock. They must have, right? He was the consulting detective after all. And if it hadn’t bothered him enough to say anything back then – and he’d always been woefully, sometimes frustratingly silent about people’s insinuations – then perhaps it didn’t bother him now.

This gave John a glimmer of hope. More energised, he made himself a cup of tea and pulled his mobile out. Perhaps he was overreacting. He knew how Sherlock was; he’d probably just gotten busy with some case or other. They lived at opposite ends of the city. He couldn’t expect to see or hear from him that often.

Fortified by the tea and the possibility that his unplanned confession hadn’t alienated his best friend, John tapped out a text: _Hi._ _I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable the other night._

He pondered that a bit before he erased it. He tried again: _Hi,_ _I hope the stuff I said didn’t--_ But he erased it again.

John pondered. _Rosie misses you._ Nope. _Let’s have dinner_. John almost sent that one but realised who he was plagiarising at the last moment, mortified. He almost gave up, and maybe if his stomach hadn’t been a large, miserable churn, he would have. But it was, and so he tried again: _Shall I make that thing with peas tonight?_

John sent the text and waited, all the while pretending he wasn’t waiting for a response, taking tiny, unsatisfying sips of tea as the minutes ticked past. He had just finished the laborious and time-consuming task of rinsing his mug out when his mobile phone chimed in his pocket.

_Can’t. Case. -SH_

John tried not to deflate. Well, at the very least the text confirmed that the blackout in communication probably wasn’t lurking homophobia, just Sherlock’s garden variety self-absorption. Cases took priority. It had always been that way.

John tried not to dwell on why it hadn’t bothered him so much before, and why it now did. But his mind was like a dog off its leash. Before, to a lesser or greater degree, he’d been a part of Sherlock’s cases. Even if Sherlock never valued his “little contributions”, John was still in the thick of it with him. Now he was an outsider to some parts of Sherlock’s life. And John had no one but himself to blame for that, which was the worst: he couldn’t even retreat into denial.

“What a pickle you’ve got yourself into, John,” he muttered to himself. John considered his mobile, then tapped out a brief response: _Stay safe_.

“Everything alright?” John startled. Sarah had popped her head into the kitchenette again and was frowning at him.

“What? Oh yeah. No, fine, thanks.” John pocketed his phone. “I should get back to my office. Sorry about...earlier.”

Sarah considered him. “Look, John,” she said, moving into the kitchen. “I know we’re not exactly going through the same thing. But if you ever need to chat...”

Sarah had been separated from her husband for three months. John had run into him once when he’d stopped by the surgery to pick up something. He was a nice enough bloke; maybe a bit _too_ nice, especially with his secretary. He was just like John and so of course John had hated him instantly.

John tried at least to pretend to believe himself when he said, “Yeah, we should do that sometime.”

“How about tonight?” Sarah suggested brightly. “I’ll make us dinner. Yeah?”

John held back a miserable sigh and tried to convince himself to act like a normal human being. One who had friends and _did_ things and wouldn’t screw up his infant daughter with his reclusive tendencies.

“Sounds good,” lied John. “Shall I, er, pick up a bottle of wine?”

Sarah wrinkled her nose. “I have beer.”  
“Thank God,” said John, with exaggerated relief. It got a laugh from Sarah.

John had a few patients after his extended lunch break. Nothing exciting, but experience had taught him that boring was better when it came to being a doctor. He treated nothing more serious or significant than a stomach flu and managed to sneak out a couple of minutes early to pick up Rosie.

Having fetched her (she was ridiculously happy to see him), John stopped off at a store and bought an unnecessarily expensive box of chocolates for Sarah since all the flowers look bedraggled and wilted. He hailed a cab and arrived at Sarah’s place a bit after six, naturally just as Rosie was beginning to fuss. John paid the cabbie and hoisted his child, her bag, his satchel and the grocery bag up the narrow bit of pavement between the road and the Georgian terrace. Mercifully Sarah’s flat was on the ground level, so John didn’t have to navigate any staircases.

John rang the doorbell and had a whispered half-stern, half-pleading conversations with Rosie while he waited for Sarah. “The last thing I need,” he told Rosie, “is for my employer to know how much of a shit father I am, so please behave. Okay?”

Rosie blinked at him. A gummy smile had appeared at the word “Shit”.

John sighed. Rosie hadn’t really started talking yet. She babbled, sang and hummed, yes, but nothing resembling a language. He hoped to God she wouldn’t decide _this_ was the moment to start, and with a swear word.

Steady on, Watson, he told himself, as the door opened.

“Hullo.” Sarah smiled and stood aside to let them in. She hadn’t changed clothes, which John took to mean that this was in no way, shape or form a date – thank God.

“There is a box of chocolates,” John told her, “somewhere in my right hand. Please pry it from my fingers.”

Sarah laughed and did so. “This was unnecessary, but thanks,” she said.

“I wanted to get flowers,” John said. He followed her down a short hallway and into a combined kitchen/dining room that was just on the wrong side of cramped. Something smelled delicious. “But they were all shit. I mean – uh, bad.”

Rosie had flashed another smile at the word “shit”.

“I hate flowers,” Sarah said cheerfully. “Please, sit down. Hold on.” She disappeared around a corner and returned a second later, lugging a high chair. “I’d been meaning to get rid of it since Susan’s kids are grown, which means it’s sat in the hallway for two years.”

 John plopped Rosie in place before embarking on the occult ritual of “What toy is most likely to keep her from screaming her head off?” While he put various toys in front of her, he asked, “You weren’t planning a family?”

It was out before John had really thought about it. He backtracked: “I’m sorry, that’s--”

But Sarah laughed. John had always liked how no-nonsense she was. More so in hindsight, when he wasn’t faced with the choice between the couch and the Lilo.

“No, I never wanted kids. I like kids – I love my sister’s kids – but I’ve never wanted to be a mum. Dave thought marriage would change that. He also somehow thought having an affair with a nineteen-year-old would change that.” Sarah rolled her eyes, but of course, it wasn’t all as blithe as she pretended.

“Men are curs,” John said, honestly. He started setting the table, happy to be on the receiving end of a cooked meal rather than its chef.

“I never pegged you as the father type,” Sarah remarked. She pulled the mac and cheese from the oven; the generous cheesy top layer bubbled as she set it on top of the stove. “That’s one of the reasons I went out with you.”

“One of the _many_ reasons,” John corrected her, with a cavalier smile that only had about one-quarter of heart in it. He accepted the steaming plates Sarah handed him and went to fetch the beers. “Rosie wasn’t planned. Not that I regret her for a moment,” he was quick to add, with a look at her, as if she could understand him; but she was far too absorbed in her selection of plush toys to be bored with the adult conversation.

“I was clearly wrong,” Sarah said settling down opposite him. “You’re doing great. Really.”

John didn’t know quite what to say to that, so he ducked his head and cornered off a bite of macaroni for Rosie. He blew on it to cool it down before beginning the arduous process of convincing her to eat it. Tonight it required him patiently pretending to feed three stuffed toys before Rosie, satisfied that her friends weren’t being left out, acquiesced.

John and Sarah made small talk, both of them doing so with the fervour only the truly lonely get. One of the things John missed most about living with someone was the ritual of talking about one’s day. True, Sherlock had largely deduced John’s day, but still, it was someone taking notice, wasn’t it? Mary had been really good at it. Whether she was truly interested, or whether it was because she’d spent most of it working with him, John still didn’t really know. And it’s not like he could give her the benefit of the doubt, not after everything that had happened.

John helped Sarah clear up, and they retired to the living room to finish off their beers. John was on the sofa with Rosie, who insisted on sitting on his lap. Sarah sat on a lounge chair with one foot tucked under her. Their conversation was amicable, comfortable. But they never really strayed into deeper waters, something John suspected they were both grateful for.

He and Rosie got back home around eight, both of them edging into “tired and therefore cranky” territory. His flat was on the first floor; between Rosie, the stairs, their bags and his complaining knees, John was almost to the flat’s door before he noticed something awry.

He paused, his heart rate picking up.

No, he hadn’t imagined it. There was another sound somewhere behind the door; a pause, a scuffle, then silence.

John didn’t know what to do. Oh, before? Before he’d have waltzed right in and either kicked arse or got his kicked – it hadn’t really mattered, if he were honest. But things had changed.

So John Watson, war veteran, doctor, and sometime assistant of Sherlock Holmes did the only thing he could, under the circumstances: he retreated so he could call the police. Lestrade, specifically.

He had just reached the stairs when he heard his flat door open behind him.

 

7.

“John?”

Relief and then anger flooded through John in quick succession. He turned around, eyes narrowed.

Sherlock stood in the doorway, nonplussed. It was easy to notice how frowzy he looked because he was usually so well put together, but John doubted anyone else would’ve noticed the crumpled button-up or the way his hair stuck up. He was sans blazer and had his sleeves rolled up.

“What the hell are you doing?” John asked him, trying – and failing – to keep the anger out of his voice. Rosie stirred unhappily in his arms.

Sherlock’s face flickered before he settled on “brazen”: “You said something about dinner. Well, here--”

But John had learned from Mary. He knew Sherlock was lying.

“You scared the _hell_ out of me,” John snapped. He pushed past Sherlock into the flat, looking around. Nothing was obviously out of place. Only the hall and kitchen lights were on. John put Rosie in her high chair, a change of position she was not happy about. She started sniffing and made those wobbly little sounds that preceded a proper crying session.

“You gave me a key,” Sherlock said behind him. He’d come back in and shut the door behind him. His tone was defensive, but his posture was tired. He looked like he hadn’t been sleeping.

“For emergencies!”

Sherlock paced, avoiding his eyes. The more John saw of him, the more frazzled he looked. John’s stomach dropped, right past anger, frustration and into despair.

“Please,” he said, his voice much quieter – and horrified. Sherlock jerked around at his change of tone. “Please tell me I don’t need to call Mycroft and tell him you’re rummaging around my flat, looking for a prescription pad.”

Not that he kept one there, of course: they were all safely locked up in the office. But if a junkie was desperate enough, even one as clever as Sherlock...

The defensiveness slid off Sherlock’s face, replaced by a momentary flash of hurt. “No,” he said. “I—I’d never do that to you, John. I swear.”

“Then what the fuck is going on?” But the anger had evaporated. John just felt tired. He tried to distract Rosie with a toy, but she had started crying in earnest, upset by their friction. He lifted her out of the high chair and, after a second’s hesitation, offered her to Sherlock. “She misses you.”

Sherlock accepted her with a look of such gratitude that John felt like a complete shit. “Me, too,” he murmured, settling her on a hip. John almost didn’t catch it.

“You said you couldn’t come over for dinner,” John pointed out. “And I quote, ‘Case’.”

Sherlock’s eyes were on Rosie. “I...needed a break,” he said. “I thought you’d be home.”

But for all his gently swaying Rosie, John didn’t quite believe him. “Sarah invited us over for dinner. No,” he pre-empted, busying himself with the kettle, “it wasn’t a date. Just friends catching up.”

Sherlock didn’t comment and John didn’t bother to turn around and register his expression. He could think what he wanted.

“So what’s the case?” he asked instead, arranging their mugs and dropping teabags into them with the wary resignation that seemed to mark so much of his friendship with the world’s most infuriating and difficult man.

Sherlock was still moving around with Rosie, whose tears had subsided into sleepy amazement at her favourite uncle. “I can’t say much about it,” Sherlock hedged.

“Dangerous?” John tried not to take it personally. He knew Sherlock helped out Mycroft more often now; Mycroft and his government friends. Although perhaps “allies” was the better word.

Sherlock hesitated, then: “Yes. And important. I...have to solve it.”

John looked at him, but he was looking at Rosie – or rather, through Rosie.

“Well, if you want to talk it over...” They were silent, waiting for the kettle to boil. Tea made, John carried it into the sitting room, Sherlock trailing behind. He didn’t sit – kept moving around with Rosie. Rocking her to sleep, John realised.

“Just friends catching up,” Sherlock repeated finally. He looked at John.

John stifled a sigh. “Yeah.”

“You’ve known each other a long time,” Sherlock noted.

John didn’t know what to make of Sherlock’s mood. They seemed to be talking an awful lot about relationships for two British men just lately. Was Sherlock really still on this? Why did it matter – why did he care? That was sort of the problem John had been facing the last week: Sherlock didn’t care, not like that.

“We have, yeah.”

“There was something there, at the beginning.” Sherlock hummed a catch of Vitali’s “Chaconne” to Rosie, who babbled and touched his face.

“Not much. And the kidnapping by oriental gangsters sort of put the fork in it, anyway,” John said.

Sherlock looked at him. “There are some things relationships can’t survive?” he wondered.

John frowned. He was thinking of the fact that he forgave both Mary and Sherlock and they him. “If you want it to, I think a relationship can survive almost anything. Neither I nor Sarah wanted that,” he added.

Sherlock nodded, distracted.

They didn’t speak for a long moment. Sherlock was gently cradling away Rosie’s resistance; and John, well, John was mulling. Mulling Sherlock’s appearance, mulling his words. Mulling the fact that he looked a little sad, especially when he thought John couldn’t see his face.

A case, Sherlock had said. One he couldn’t talk about and had to solve.

He was saying goodbye, John realised. He was leaving again.

It was hard to describe what John felt at that moment. He sat on his couch, half-empty mug in hand, watching the man he loved rock his daughter to sleep. The man he loved...who didn’t love him back.

 _Maybe_ – a dark whisper, _Mary’s_ dark whisper – _he wouldn’t have felt the need to leave if it hadn’t been for your little confession. He knows,_ she assured John. _He knows how you feel. He’s trying to spare you both._

A sense of loneliness so acute it turned John’s stomach rippled through him. He put his mug down. For a second he could smell sand, heat, gun oil, sweat. He stood abruptly.

“I’d better put her down,” he told Sherlock. His voice sounded distant to his own ears. He only really came to when he’d laid Rosie down. Toys made unfathomable shapes in the darkness, but she slept peacefully, blissfully unaware that friends could so easily become monsters.

By the time John returned, Sherlock had left.

It was a long, sleepless night.

 

8.

Thursday was blustery and cold. John was awake when it started raining at one am, and he was still awake at three when Rosie cried for him; then again at four. He didn’t bother returning to bed afterwards. There was little point. He made himself a cup of tea he didn’t drink and sat at his kitchen table, waiting for his alarm to go off at six, thinking.

Sherlock was leaving – had already left. He had some assignment ahead of him, one he probably took to give John a window. Really, if you thought about it, it was a kindness. This perversely made John feel even worse because he wasn’t actually enough of a dick to be angry at Sherlock for being _kind_.

Sherlock Holmes wasn’t just a great man anymore – he was a good one too, or so Greg said. It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault this made John feel morally inadequate.

The best thing John could do was to use the window Sherlock so fortuitously provided. Sherlock was probably doing it to salvage the possibility of their remaining friends. John would be churlish not to accept the olive branch, especially when he had done so little in the past to deserve such a gesture.

But time stretched ahead of John like a freezing lake with only the thinnest veneer of ice to cover it; ice that would crack at even the slightest pressure. How long would Sherlock be gone? And, honestly, would it be long enough for John to staunch his feelings?

He’d always been a practical man, Dr Watson, and so he tried to approach it pragmatically.

What he needed, John knew, was a distraction. Before Rosie, this would have involved many benders undertaken at many pubs, clubs and casinos with friends who weren’t really friends, merely acquaintances who were trying to do the same thing John was: forget. John was thinking of his varsity days especially. There had been borderline sleazy flirting and casual sex, screaming matches with Harry and John’s girlfriend of the week, loggerheads with his bosses and underlings at University College. Late nights, groggy mornings, beer sweat, anger.

John’s biggest distraction had always been being at war with himself. His respectability had only been salvaged because he’d gone off to an _actual_ war and earned some distinction for doing what he’d always been doing in one form or another anyway.

For a moment, John could see himself doing that again. There was always a company looking for ex-soldiers, and he was a doctor to boot. There’d be people to take care of Rosie. Some would argue – the darkly amused whisper that was part-Mary, part-John’s guilt, for instance – that Rosie would be better off being raised by someone else. _Anyone_ else.

Maybe this time, John thought, angry at himself for the self-pity but simultaneously unable to stop it – maybe this time they’d have more success shooting at him.

It was this thought (and the long, lonely, cold desire behind it) that snapped John out of it a little. He’d promised himself that he wouldn’t go there. If not for himself, then for Rosie.

Rosie, who was so unlike him and Mary: cheerful, curious, trusting. John had failed himself, he’d failed her mother, he’d failed Sherlock and Harry and a litany of people – but maybe, for Rosie...

Having children didn’t automatically make you a good parent, or even a good person, but it did make you want to _try_ , John thought.

He could try for Rosie, couldn’t he?

The first thing John did was type out an email to Ella’s office to bump up his next appointment. John fetched his laptop to do so because typing up anything other than texts on an iPhone was an infuriating exercise. When he had finished – unnecessarily reading it through twice before sending – it was still only a quarter to five. He sighed and cracked his neck, the laptop casting tinny light over the shadowy kitchen.

He knew what Ella would want when he saw her. She’d want some kind of action plan. As his therapy had progressed, her trust in him had as well, and she now expected him to play a more active role in his own support.

A distraction, John thought, absent-mindedly chewing at his nails, staring off into the middle-distance. He needed a distraction. A new job? But John liked where he worked; the salary was great, it was close to his flat and to Rosie’s crèche, and after another year he could start the process of becoming a partner at the clinic. So, no new job, not unless he absolutely had to.

The next best thing would be to take up a hobby. He supposed he could start up his blog again, but without Sherlock, what would he blog about? And anyway, the whole point was to _distract_ himself from Sherlock, not remind him of it with every word written.

So blogging was a no-go. Maybe something athletic? John had played rugby at school, but he was on the wrong side of forty now, and his little canter with the Scotland Yarders had reminded him strongly of that fact, even if his ego has resisted. Biking? John still had his bike somewhere. The thing with biking was that it was incredibly, incredibly dull, and he’d frankly rather take up suicide than bike ever again.

He mentally flicked through his options. Yoga? Tennis? Christ. He had a sudden mental image of himself trying to play the clarinet again, which was enough to spur him on to consult the modern oracle that was Google.

John woke his laptop up and pulled up his browser. When he’d typed up the email it had automatically opened his favourite tabs, which included YouTube. He almost clicked there out of habit, wondering which of his favourite ASMRtists had uploaded since he’d been on last before he paused.

ASMR, he thought.

It made sense, even though a part of John – the part embarrassed by the fact that he enjoyed ASMR, specifically _Sherlock’s_ ASMR – really didn’t want it to. John knew what triggers he liked best, and had started to notice them in real life: the nice sound the plastic around the hundred-pack earbuds made, for instance, or the way his pen sounded gliding over the clipboard at the office.

And though Sherlock’s was one of John’s favourite channels, it wasn’t the only one he listened to. ASMR was something John had found on his own.

Energised, John pulled up the forum that had first put him onto ASMR. _How,_ he typed into a new post, _does one start an ASMR channel?_

 

9.

After a listless Friday, the weekend whipped past, aggravatingly cold. John spent much of it indoors with Rosie. He didn’t hear a peep from Sherlock and after typing out and deleting half a dozen texts (“Good luck”, “Thank you”, “I’m sorry”, “You git”, “I’m in love with you”) he gave it up as a bad job and hoped (prayed?) Sherlock’s case wouldn’t get him killed.

John’s post on the ASMR forum had received a few replies; mostly, John suspected, from types trying to avoid the nascent festive spirit. But three or four were from ASMRtists and directed him to resources, how-tos, and sales on the equipment he’d need to get started. A few pledged support once he started posting, for feedback if nothing else.

Amazon.co.uk received quite a penny in patronage from John that Saturday. After research – _extensive_ research, owing to the fact that he was single and Rosie was content with sitting on his lap, watching his belaboured typing and clicking with amusement and interest – John bought a variety of electronic things, including but not limited to microphones, cables, an HD camcorder and its accessories, and professional editing software. The total amount was startling, but steady employment and a chunk of inheritance from Mary meant he could squeeze his eyes shut and click “Pay” without worrying about the roof over their heads.

Sunday, after a brisk walk in the local park with Rosie, John studied tutorials, making notes and jotting down ideas. He was starting to think about the kind of videos he’d like to make. He did this by thinking about videos he’d like to watch, and then pondered how he could produce those videos himself. He picked a few simple scenarios and methodically worked through what he would need and how to go about staging and recording. His scribbled to-do lists were something to behold.

Come Monday, John was feeling...well, not _better_ , but he was okay in a way that suggested he would have some sort of emotional collapse in the future, but not just at the moment, thanks. The situation was far from perfect and probably untenable, but it was _functional_ , and it kept Rosie and him warm, fed, clean, dressed and going about their business.

Anticipating Amazon’s delivery schedule, John had set the surgery as his delivery address, and so Monday saw the receptionist, George, receive a suspicious number of packages addressed to John Watson. “Retail therapy?” Sarah asked as John and George carted the boxes to the staff room. John nodded. He had a vague but persistent suspicion that Sarah thought he was buying sex toys en masse. Depending on who you asked, John supposed ASMR was technically weirder.

John spent much of his free time the rest of the week figuring out everything he’d bought, and orderings things he hadn’t thought he would need, but did. By the end of the week, with twinkling Christmas displays and tinkling Christmas music shadowing his every movement out of doors, John had recorded a few “test runs” and figured out the nettling software. And he was actually sleeping, dropping off late every night, exhausted; but, as he’d hoped, he was fully distracted.

John waited until late that Friday night, after Rosie’s bedtime, to start recording what he hoped would be the first video on his newly registered YouTube channel, Three Continents ASMR. He’d been stuck on a name, not wanting to use his own or any variation thereof. “Three Continents” was a nickname Bill Murray (not the actor) had given him back in Afghanistan after John had struck out with three different women in one bar in a single evening. One had been British, one American and one a local, and all had declined his (drunk) advances. John hadn’t been able to live it down for a fortnight, and so the moniker had been born.

At the very least, John reflected, adjusting his camera, it was a slightly more original name than “The Blog of Dr John Watson” had been.

John had set up in the sitting room, pulling the desk away from the wall it stood up against. Beyond his laptop and the lamp next to it, he kept the room dark. The microphones – he used two – were set up on either side of the laptop. Files were stacked on the side farthest from the camera.

Taking a deep breath and feeling somewhat nervous, John hit record, tapping each microphone once before he sat down at the desk and adjusted his seating. He fiddled with the laptop, making sure that neither the screen nor the files would be visible to the camera. The camera was angled low enough that the viewer wouldn’t be able to see John’s face or much background; just his hands and arms.

And then he worked. John didn’t make any special effort to crinkle the paper or stroke the keyboard; he just opened the first file, pulled up Meddbase and started correlating information. It was slow, tedious going, which is why he’d left it so late. He hoped it would make a decent enough quality video.

The flat was quiet. In the background, the city slumbered as much as the city ever did. It had started raining again. John’s fingers steadily tapped their way through the backlog of admin. Pretty soon he had managed to forget that he was on camera, and it wasn’t until he’d finished that he realised he’d have to find a decent way to end the video. He smoothed over the files; then, feeling melodramatic, he closed the laptop lid and gently snapped off the lamp. Only to snap it back on immediately so he could start processing the recording.

It was four am by the time John was done editing. The finished product was amateurish, with a fade-in and a fade-out at the start and finish of the video. John was nearly invisible and very much anonymous throughout the recording, just a man typing at a computer. But while the visuals may have been a little dull, the sound had come out great – better than John had expected, although he was sure some people would be put off by the London ambience.

All that remained was for John to publish the video to his channel. Here he hesitated. He hadn’t thought of a title for it. “Catching up work” he typed, but then edited it to read, “Let’s catch up work together”. He liked that. It summarised why he was making ASMR and who he was making it for – people who were lonely, who missed the fuss of living with others.

Feeling very much Devil-may-care, or more accurately, too sad and tired to care, John edited the description and hit “Upload”.

He slept not a wink.

 

10.

John was up early the next day, tired but resigned to it. He spent most of the morning watching Shaun the Sheep with Rosie. He sat on the floor with her, an assortment of toys – stuffed toys, blocks, the broken-off wheel of a large plastic motorcycle – arranged around them. Looking at these, John realised the toys were probably meant to be watching _with_ them. Which made him worry: did Rosie feel lonely when she was away from the crèche?

On screen, one of Shaun’s plans ended in a spectacular barn explosion. Rosie looked at John and said very clearly, with a gummy, self-satisfied smile, “Shit.”

Before John had a chance to respond as if he knew _how_ , anyway, someone knocked on the front door.

It was Molly, dressed casually in jeans and a thick emerald coloured jumper and heavy navy coat. Her smile was uncertain. She looked good these days, happier and more confident, but she’d never be a social butterfly, which was fine. She’d forgone her customary ponytail for two pleats.

John felt decidedly underwhelming, dressed as he was in comfortable but faded jeans and an oatmeal jumper that had seen better days.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” she said by way of greeting.

“God, no,” John said and stood aside to let her pass.

Molly shucked her coat and went to pick up Rosie, who squirmed and flapped happily at the sight of her. John, being British, made a beeline for the kettle. Molly joined him in the kitchen, Rosie bouncing on her hip.

“Are you good?” John asked her, sorting out the mugs.

“Yeah, thanks. You?”

John shrugged but said, “I’m fine.”

There was a bit of silence while they both acknowledged this clearly to be a lie, but avoided talking about it.

“Rosie just said her first real word,” John said, desperate to have a normal, non-fraught adult conversation.

“Oh yeah?” Molly at least looked genuinely curious.

“’Shit’,” John quoted his daughter.

As if on queue, Rosie told Molly wisely, “Shit.”

To her credit, Molly tried. But she couldn’t keep the laughter in, which set John off. Rosie screeched, delighted to have amused them.

They took their tea through to the living room. Midway between mutual commiserating about staff layoffs in the NHS and the general state of medicine, Molly went the colour of beetroot and confessed, rather abruptly, “I, er, have some good news.”

John’s stomach turned like a seal flopping over. Panic – sheer and complete – washed over him. He felt his breath even out like he’d turned around to find an IED next to him.

“Yeah?” he croaked.

In his mind’s eye, John saw Sherlock finally acting on the advice he, John, had given him all those months ago. John had been referring to Irene when he’d told Sherlock not to let love pass him by. It hadn’t occurred to him that, maybe, after all this time, it might actually be _Molly_...

Molly’s eyes were mostly on Rosie as she said, “It’s...Well, me and...” She sighed and looked at John, grinning and blushing. “Greg’s asked me to move in with him.”

It took John a few seconds to absorb that. “Greg?” he repeated, more confused than relieved.

Molly ducked her eyes. “We’ve been...on and off.” She blushed so John assumed she meant “having sex”. “But lately it’s... We’re...”

John smiled. “That’s—I’m really happy for you. Yeah, Greg’s... He’s a decent bloke.”

Molly looked at John as if waiting for him to say something else.

“Do you need some...extra curtains, or...” John floundered.

Molly smiled. “No, I just... You can ask, you know. I’d prefer it if you did, actually.”

John cleared his throat. “Well. I thought, with what happened with Eurus, maybe you and Sherlock...”

Molly’s smile was a little sad, but John didn’t detect any wistfulness in it. “I’ll always love Sherlock,” she said, and the way she said it made it sound somehow pure and innocent. “But he’s never loved me in the same way, and he never will. And that’s okay,” she forestalled John’s false assurances.

So John said, “I’m sorry.” He meant it, too, because he now understood what he was apologising _for_ – the dreadful loneliness of longing for someone who would never be within your reach. “He’s Sherlock,” he added, with a shrug, like that explained everything. Maybe it did, maybe it didn’t, but John knew Molly would understand.

“He’s Sherlock with _me_ , yes,” Molly said, releasing Rosie to the vast carpet of joy and mystery and toys. She immediately crawled over to her favourite blocks.

John was nonplussed. “He’s Sherlock with everyone.”

A look crossed Molly’s face. “No,” she insisted, then sighed. “That’s actually why I’m here. I wouldn’t...interfere...but he’s been at the lab an awful lot, and he looks...he looks...”

John grimaced. “Yeah, I think he’s busy with an important case. That’s what he told me, anyway.” John forewent telling her why he suspected Sherlock told him so.

Molly’s lips thinned. “I think he misses you,” she said in a determined sort of way that John both appreciated for her sake but was annoyed by.

He shook his head. “I don’t think he does, honestly.” This came out more bitterly than he’d anticipated.

“Did you row?”

John’s first instinct was to change the subject, let the conversation patter out, bid her a good day when she inevitably departed early. But this was Molly. If anyone in the whole world could begin to understand...

He thought of himself and his daughter, watching television surrounded by inanimate objects.

John swallowed. He felt like he was next to an IED again. “I—I don’t think so.”

“So what’s going on? You look...” In her kindness, Molly didn’t finish the sentence.

“I think he’s trying to be nice to me.” John’s eyes were unfocused; he was looking inward, back to their last conversation, and to the revelation he had had in the frozen park. “I think he’s realised that I...” He blew out a breath. “That I have feelings for him. I think he’s trying to give me an out because obviously he doesn’t feel the same way.”

It was the last few words that did him in. John started to sob. It was like a dam wall breaking. He was so distraught he didn’t even have room to feel embarrassed or ashamed. All there was, was misery; years and years of it, like crisscrossing scars over an ever-festering wound.

Molly, bless her heart, was great about it. She rushed over to sit beside him on the couch with no hesitation, and she let him weep into her nice green jumper with so much patience and compassion that John felt even shittier by comparison. It felt like it went on for ages, but it probably wasn’t longer than five minutes.

“God, I feel so--” John started, voice thick.

“Stupid,” Molly finished for him, returning with the box of tissues she’d gone to fetch from the kitchen. “I know. But you’re not.”

John patted his face dry. He felt... Well, not better. But emptier. Like some of the murk had been washed from his soul.

“I’m--”

“There’s no need to apologise.” Molly said this sternly, and John realised with a dull pang that this was probably something she’d had to tell herself often. “I’m glad you told me. I hate to think you’ve been walking around with this all this time.”

There was silence, interrupted only by Rosie’s distracted noises – her attention riveted still on Shaun the Sheep. God, John couldn’t believe he’d just made a scene to the background of a children’s show.

“What are you going to do?” Molly asked him finally.

John shook his head, trying to put himself back together. “Give him space. Give myself space.”

Molly bit her lip. “Maybe you should talk to him. I’ve always thought, well.” She reddened. “I thought maybe the reason he...doesn’t like me, is because he likes, well, you.”

John fidgeted with the tissue in his hand. “I thought...at the beginning when we just met. I thought...” _I thought there was something there._ Funny that Sherlock had said that just a few weeks ago, about John and Sarah. The difference being that Sherlock had been right, and John wasn’t.

“Well, isn’t that worth pursuing?”

John shook his head. “I don’t want to risk our friendship. It’s probably just grief anyway, yeah? God, I need to get out more. And now I can’t even go on a bender with Greg, or he’ll have trouble from his missus.”

Molly smiled at John’s stupid joke because Molly was a good and kind person, and John had never really given her credit for that before. And being good and kind, she let him pretend his face wasn’t blotchy with heartbreak, and helped him change the subject, and fussed about Rosie, and stayed an hour longer just being an adult, being someone else in John’s life.

John was truly sad to see her go. He and Rosie walked her down, waved goodbye, and watched her until she’d disappeared around the corner. John wondered glumly if he was doomed to be forever waving goodbye to people from his stoop, which even he had to admit was a bizarre and miserly turn of thought.

At around eight, after he’d fed and bathed Rosie and put her to bed, John remembered he’d uploaded his ASMR video earlier that morning and pulled out his laptop to check how few hits he’d garnered. He kept his expectations low and so wasn’t devastated to see that it was in the single digits. First scowling at his screen, then sighing at his own neediness, John considered nuking Three Continents ASMR and selling everything he’d bought. But a fresh cup of tea, a bit of a mull and a yawning chasm of boredom spurred him back to the ASMR forum, this time to advertise his new video.

John dawdled over the post like the old man he was fast becoming, finally settling for linking his previous post asking for advice and adding:

_Thank you for all the wonderful advice. I pulled the trigger and started my ASMR channel, Three Continents ASMR, and have uploaded my first video. Please check it out and let me know what you think._

He paused to consider how to sign it. _\--J_ , he decided.

John posted it and shut his laptop before he could succumb to the temptation to sit around hitting “Refresh”. Instead, he pulled out his tablet and his clamshell earphones, making sure Rosie’s baby monitor was on and facing him on the coffee table before he picked one of Sherlock’s ASMR videos. He settled back on the couch and stabbed “play”.

The video was shot in 221B’s kitchen. The table was cluttered with vials, Bunsen burners and other scientific equipment, and there was an intriguing amount of bubbling, dripping and pattering in the background. Sherlock himself was barely in frame, and what was visible of him was distorted through the equipment. He was obviously busy running some chemical experiment or another. He’d pause ever so often to scribble furiously, and there was a five-minute stretch where he simply stared off into the distance before reanimating and fiddling with beakers and tubes.

John felt a feeling an awful lot like “acceptance” settle in his gut as he watched Sherlock do something John had seen him do a million times before. The video evoked such a clear feeling of “home” that John knew, watching Sherlock swirl something noxious looking around a glass vial, that he’d do everything to make sure this – this video – wasn’t the only way for him to still _know_ Sherlock. Even burying his, well, his love – John could do that. If that was what Sherlock needed, if that was what their friendship needed, John could do that.

John slept that night. Misery was exhausting company.

 

11.

John and Rosie spent Sunday morning out, which was not to either of their liking, but there was shopping to be done. They were back at the flat just after ten, cold, hungry and grumpy, and John immediately headed into the kitchen to get a proper breakfast started.

Which was when he had an idea.

Since most of the equipment was already set up and stashed in John’s bedroom, it only took about ten minutes to get the camera and audio set up going. The frame focused on the kitchen table, but was angled low so neither his nor Rosie’s face would be visible. John had few expectations about the quality of the video, but he thought at the very least it ought to make a good ambient track, and so he got everything ready before he started the process of making breakfast.

He did everything as he normally did, just a little more quietly. He boiled some eggs, fried some bacon, diced a tomato, cut some cheese; boiled the kettle, prepped his tea and Rosie’s bottle; got the toast on. Rosie was quiet, content to wait in her high chair, touching and babbling to some of her stuffed toys.

After a while, John forgot the camera was rolling, and soon he and Rosie were eating contentedly. There was a minor fracas over who got the last bite of cheese, which Rosie won. John swapped out her toys for a fresh batch so she wouldn’t get bored and diligently got started on the cleaning up.

With Rosie settled for another indeterminate of time with Shaun the Sheep, John was free to start processing the footage he’d recorded. It was rough, but he worked on it on and off the whole day, in between entertaining and otherwise caring for Rosie and himself. He set it to upload while he bathed Rosie and got her settled, and made himself yet another cup of tea before he sat down at the kitchen table to check the upload’s progress.

To John’s genuine surprise, the video – which he’d called “Eat breakfast with us [Ambient]” was done and already had a sprinkling of likes. Checking his notifications, John found that his post on the ASMR forum had gained him almost two hundred followers and a bunch of likes on the first video overnight. The comments were all lovely, and so far the only criticism seemed to be about the fact that his face wasn’t visible.

John couldn’t lie, he felt chuffed with himself, but he at least had the wherewithal to feel silly in equal measure.

Maybe, he thought, switching off the kitchen light and getting ready for bed – maybe ignoring his feelings for Sherlock wouldn’t be so difficult. He could find other things to preoccupy him. And the loneliness, shitty as it was, was great creative fuel for his channel.

Silver linings indeed, John thought, making sure to settle down in the exact middle of his bed. He folded his hands on his stomach and stared at the ceiling. Yeah, maybe, he thought, nodding to himself once. He could do this. It was fine – it was all fine. That’s what he said all those years ago, now, and it was still true.

And if he wept a little before he fell asleep... Well. No one was there to see it, anyway.

 

12.

John was aware of nothing but dreamless sleep when he startled awake, his heart pounding.

His room was dark. The electronic clock on the bedside table indicated that it was just after two am. John automatically looked at the baby monitor, but it was quiet. So was the flat. So why had he--?

There was another burst of knocking. John swung his feet from the bed, not bothering with robe or slippers. Moving soundlessly, he retrieved his gun from the small gun safe in the closet before padding out into the flat proper.

All was dark and quiet, save the shadow of a person beneath the front door.

John had just opened his mouth to demand to know who it was when Sherlock’s voice said, “Don’t shoot, John, it’s me.”

John’s heart did a complicated wiggle inside his chest. Exhaling, he notched the safety back on the Browning, unlocked the door and swung it open.

Sherlock was mostly in shadow, but it wasn’t hard to identify the nervous energy running through him – he had trouble standing still. John stood aside to let him in, snapping on the light and shutting the door behind the consulting detective, who walked wordlessly into the middle of the room and then stood peering around like he’d never been there before, looking lost.

“What’s going on?” John’s voice was sleep roughened, but calm – in action mode. “Are you alright?” he asked Sherlock when he didn’t respond, his belly crawling with worry.

Sherlock turned to face him. He was dressed as usual: white shirt, black suit, the big coat, the red scarf. But he looked much the same as the last time John had seen him—no, worse, actually. His hair was messy, and there was a shadow of stubble across his jaw and over his top lip. His eyes were red-rimmed, puffy and roaming.

Sherlock opened his mouth, then sighed forcefully and roughed up his hair in what John identified as “tired frustration”.

“I’m not high!” he snapped, when John opened his mouth to ask.

“Okay.” John unloaded the clip from the Browning and went to put the pieces at either end of the mantelpiece, making a mental note to lock the weapon away as soon as Sherlock left. He and Sherlock regarded each other, but Sherlock seemed disinclined to speak.

“Did you finish your case?” John asked finally, crossing his arms over his chest. He wanted to let Sherlock know that he understood, now, and that he was alright with it.

But Sherlock surprised him by saying, “No.” He stared off into the middle-distance before appearing to snap out of it. He pocketed his hands in his coat and bounced his eyes around the room, frowning. “I tried,” he explained, sounding distracted, even nervous. “Truly. I thought about it every way I can. I...”

He looked at John then; a long, clear, intense look. It made John, who was dressed in an old white t-shirt and a pair of shorts, feel uncomfortably exposed. He had to resist the temptation to cross his arms over his chest like he was some scandalised maiden.

“And?” John prompted, confused by the direction of Sherlock’s thoughts. The case had been a distraction, after all, maybe even a fake. Hadn’t it?

“There’s only one way to solve it,” Sherlock said. “But it’s—it’s dangerous. The most dangerous thing I’ve ever – will ever...”

Words apparently failed him. Sherlock swallowed and stared at John hard, almost desperately. As if willing him to do something.

“Do you need—can I help?” John asked, knowing even as he asked that it was unlikely that he’d be able to help if Sherlock and his other connections couldn’t.

But Sherlock surprised him again. “Yes,” he said immediately. “Will you?”

John shrugged. “Of course. If I can.” He sounded dubious to his own ears.

Sherlock was nodding now. “You can. Only you can.”

This sent a prickle of—well, _something_ down John’s spine. Fear, certainly, but also...relief? Sherlock still needed him. That was...nice. It wasn’t enough, but if it was all he could get...

Which made John feel endlessly dejected. “So what--” he started, mostly to stop his mood from spiralling. He didn’t need Sherlock to catch on to that.

“Do you trust me?” Sherlock interrupted him. His eyes flicked between John’s own.

Did he?

“I...guess.” It was as much as Sherlock could hope for, John thought, with their history.

But it appeared to satisfy Sherlock. “Close your eyes,” he instructed.

John was reluctant to do this—understandably so, he thought. “Why?” he wanted to know, suspicious.

“I—“ Sherlock floundered. He looked as tired as John felt, and then some. John suddenly wondered if he wasn’t the only one who had been having problems sleeping. “Please,” Sherlock pleaded, his voice quiet, honest, desperate.

John considered, but after a moment – a moment he wished very much he still had his gun in hand – he relented and closed his eyes.

“Now what?” he wanted to know, trying and failing to see the point of this.

Sherlock was silent, but John could hear his breathing: it was ragged. John didn’t know what to expect. His heart was hammering, but he felt steady, as he always did when he feared mortal danger most. A string of images – Sherlock with a gun, Sherlock with a needle, a red laser sight floating between John’s eyebrows – flashed through John’s mind.

“Sherlock,” John said, “I--”

John only had a second’s warning of body heat and rustling clothing before Sherlock’s lips touched his own. The kiss was marginal – barely a kiss at all – pressure and suggestion more than substance. Sherlock smelled like nicotine and rain and a fugue of aftershave and hair gel. His lips were chapped, his beard scratchy, his hand fever warm where it rested momentarily on John’s shoulder.

John’s eyes flew open, catching Sherlock on the retreat, ducking _his_ eyes, his face reddening. John’s arm shot out without much conscious direction from him, grabbing Sherlock by a handful of shirt and jacket and holding him in place, their bodies half a meter apart.

Sherlock was... In some ways, he was hard to look at. He looked come undone like something was shaking loose inside of him. He was frantic and, John realised with horror, _frightened_. Sherlock was afraid.

John released him immediately, but he moved a half-step closer. Their last few encounters flashed through his mind. Had Sherlock... Had he been asking...?

“What was the case?” John asked Sherlock urgently. He had to struggle to find and hold Sherlock’s gaze.  
He could see it cost Sherlock a lot to reply. His voice was faint: “Does John Watson feel the same way about me as I do about him?”

John released a long, shaky breath. A breath he’d been holding since the day he’d first met Sherlock and reassured him that it was all “fine” when, in fact, it had been far from bloody _fine_.

“Well, there’s your problem.” John deliberately placed a hand on Sherlock’s hip; Sherlock’s body jerked, but his eyes swept John’s face, his expression tremulous. Relief, hope, fear, and loneliness flitted across Sherlock’s face as he apparently struggled for a measure of control. “You started from the wrong presupposition,” John said.

“Is that so?” Sherlock’s eyes were focused on John’s lips. John noticed that Sherlock’s pupils were wide, bright.

John nodded. His voice was husky. “Now if you’d started from the assumption that I _love_ you, then...”

Sherlock made a noise somewhere in his throat and scanned John’s face. If he was hoping to disprove John’s statement, John knew he would find nothing to do so. Not anymore.

It felt natural, then, to close the distance between their bodies and their lips. Suddenly it didn’t matter that John was dressed only in pyjamas – it meant less distance between him and Sherlock. For a few, long moments, there was nothing but exploratory kisses, the slide of tongue and lips, the gentle press of their bodies against the other. John had one hand buried in Sherlock’s hair; Sherlock’s palms had found the skin of his back beneath his t-shirt.

It was only when Sherlock pulled away so he could begin shucking his clothing that John took a step back, then another, trying to calm his heart. It was trying to beat right out of his chest, and his dick, if he was being honest.

Sherlock caught John’s movement and froze, halfway out of his jacket.

“Did I—did I misinter--” Sherlock looked ridiculously vulnerable, just then, dishevelled, his eyes deep and distracted, lips kiss-bright. John felt such a wave of emotion pass over him that it took him a second to speak.

“No. As I’m sure you’ve, ah, deduced.” The beginnings of a hopeful hard-on felt very visible through the thin fabric of John’s shorts. He rubbed the back of his neck. A part of him wanted to step forward and help Sherlock out of his clothes, and then just cover, claim, as much of Sherlock as he’d allow. But a wiser part of John – small, it was true, but insistent – told him to hold back.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, eyes falling to the area in question. He swallowed visibly and licked his lips. John’s boner became decidedly more optimistic.

“And much as I want to...” John decided not to finish the thought, because he’d just noticed that his arousal wasn’t the only one at the party. “I think--”

“What, John?” Sherlock’s voice was husky. He finished sliding out of his jacket and discarded it on the couch, his eyes moving deliberately over John’s body. He started unbuckling his belt.

John had to smile at that. The look in Sherlock’s eyes was nothing short of ravenous. This was going to be hard. But it _was_ Sherlock, after all.

John stepped closer again, stilling Sherlock’s large hands. “There’s a lot we have to talk about. These last few weeks, for one. These last few years, for another.” John moved his hands so he was holding Sherlock’s. The touch felt...good. Natural. _Right_. “I’ve messed up so much in the past, and I don’t want this to be the same way. I--” John broke off, ducked his eyes. It felt a lot like someone was holding a gun to his head, just then, so frightened was he by what he needed to communicate – so frightened was he that Sherlock would change his mind. “This is too important to... Do you understand?”

John looked up. Sherlock’s regard was naked, vulnerable – and understanding. “Yes,” he whispered.

John smiled. Moving slowly, he rose on his feet so he could kiss Sherlock once, gently.

“Let’s go to bed. To sleep,” he clarified when confusion flashed across Sherlock’s face. “I—if you want,” John added, feeling suddenly self-conscious again.

Hesitantly, Sherlock lifted their joined hands to kiss John’s knuckles. “I’d like that,” he whispered against John’s skin.

John preceded Sherlock into his bedroom, quickly arranging the bed and pulling back the covers. Then he went to check on Rosie, spending a few minutes more than he needed to watch her sleep, just collecting himself and absorbing the moment. By the time he returned, Sherlock was curled up on his side, covers pulled up to his shoulders.

John slipped in beside him, sighing as he settled before looking over to Sherlock. Sherlock was studying him in minute eye twitches. John felt remarkably calm about the attention.

“You were right, you know,” John told him. He reached up with the back of a hand to brush a stray curl from Sherlock’s forehead.

“I usually am,” Sherlock returned, as John had known he would. “What about?”

“I did meet someone.” John watched Sherlock absorb this information. Before he could get the wrong idea, John added, “Half a dozen years ago, in a lab. My friend Mike introduced us.”

Sherlock’s facial expression was inscrutable.

“Brilliant man,” John went on, letting the back of his fingers trail along Sherlock’s scruffy jaw. “A good one, too. Too good for me, I’m afraid.” His voice broke a little on the last few words.

“John.” Sherlock reached up to hold his hand to his lips. “You were the good and brilliant one first, I’ve just been trying to catch up. I...I don’t think I’m quite there yet. But I’d very much like to keep trying.”

John nodded, too emotional to speak. “John,” Sherlock repeated. He pressed closer, pressed small, soft kisses to John’s face until John pulled their lips together. These kisses were deeper, longer. No longer searching, but finding.

When the air between them grew heated again, John might have been tempted to disregard his earlier wisdom. But this time it was Sherlock who pulled back, but only so he could settle himself on John’s chest. John closed his arms around him. It was...something else, to have this man in his embrace.

“I’ve missed you,” Sherlock said, after a long moment. “Not just lately, though it’s been...challenging, not seeing you. All along. All this time. Especially when you were close, and I couldn’t—we didn’t--”

John ran his fingers up the bare skin of Sherlock’s back and into his hair. He kissed his forehead and inhaled against his head. “We’re idiots,” John said, after another moment.

Sherlock chuckled. They lapsed into silence. John was waiting for Sherlock to fall asleep when Sherlock spoke again.

“I love you,” he whispered against John’s chest. John’s fingers froze from where he’d been carding through his curls. “It’s a poor excuse, and I...” Sherlock sighed, a forlorn motion that John felt echo somewhere deep inside himself. “I love you.”

“You’re the best man that I know,” John told him simply. It had been true the first time he’d said it, and John found that he still meant it, still believed it.

Even after all these years – maybe especially after all these years.

 

13.

No one could blame John Watson for having sleepless nights. War veteran, doctor, colleague and boyfriend of Sherlock Holmes, and perpetually spied upon by the two most astute agents in British intelligence history (Mrs Hudson and Mycroft Holmes, in that order); no, in his insomnia at least John Watson was blameless.

It was lucky, then, that John had found a “cure” for his insomnia in the guise of ASMR, both the making of and the listening to.

It was also incredibly lucky that his new boyfriend (his term; Sherlock simply spoke of John as “his”, like it was a full sentence, and maybe it was) was also into the making of and listening to ASMR. Almost _too_ lucky.

John didn’t confront Sherlock about it right away. It was easy, as there was a lot to keep them busy, what with John and Rosie’s moving back to Baker Street, his and Sherlock’s individual and joint therapy sessions, and their getting to third base. John let things settle.

It was on a cold evening in February that John finally confronted Sherlock. Sherlock was “thinking”, his head on a pillow on John’s lap. They were on the sofa. It was late and cosy. Rosie was asleep upstairs. A fire crackled in the grate.

“Sherlock?” John prompted, shutting the thriller he was reading and setting it aside. Sherlock had already spoiled the ending, but John had wanted to see how it got there.

“Hmm?” Sherlock’s hands were flat against each other, the tips of his long fingers resting against his lips. His eyes were closed.

“I’ve been meaning to ask...” John watched for Sherlock’s response. His eyes flew open immediately, his countenance becoming a touch wary.

“Yes?” He relaxed his hands to his chest. John placed one of his on top, weaving their fingers together.

“Your ASMR channel.” Sherlock froze just a little bit. John rubbed his thumb over the back of Sherlock’s. “I was just thinking what a coincidence it was, both of us listening to and making ASMR.”

Sherlock hummed agreement. Non-committed agreement.

“If I were a cynical man,” John said, “I’d say _too much_ of a coincidence.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “Well,” he said and paused when a good excuse failed to present itself.

“How’d you do it?” John wanted to know, resigned, amused, beleaguered.

“The vagaries of deduction,” Sherlock started, “are many and complex, John, and I--”

“You hacked my Gmail account, didn’t you?” John asked dryly.

“It’s not technically hacking if you know the password,” Sherlock hedged. “And anyway, I--”

“And then you got your friend Craig to somehow backdate your video list. That’s why you had so few followers.”

Sherlock grinned. “You’re getting better at this.”

“Did you really record hours of footage in what—a few days? On the off-chance that I’d find it, and then what?”

Sherlock sat up, all the better to preen. “Two days,” he said. “And I knew you’d find it because hotlips365, the ASMR forum admin who shared Casebook ASMR is _not_ a forty-one-year-old seamstress from Leeds as they claim to be on their Facebook profile, but rather an enterprising fifteen-year-old who accepts Bitcoin in exchange for ‘organically’ promoting YouTube content. I’d noticed that you liked a lot of their suggestions, so...”

“So you paid a fifteen-year-old to pimp your channel?” John raised his eyebrows.

“Needs must,” said Sherlock, with a dismissive wave of his hand. He looked like he was about to elaborate on his own cleverness, but John interrupted.

“Why, Sherlock? Why go to all that trouble?”

It took Sherlock a moment to answer. He frowned at John, but his focus softened until he was staring off into the middle distance.

“ASMR can be so...intimate,” he said finally. “I hoped if you listened to my videos...I guess I hoped you’d see me in a different way. Like someone you could be close to.” Sherlock looked at him then. “I didn’t know what else to do,” he confessed, colouring. “I thought maybe... There had been moments, over the years, when we... When it felt like...”

“Yeah,” John reassured him, squeezing his hand.

Sherlock stared at their joined hands. “Keep in mind, I also thought I was battling for your attentions, against Sarah. Sarah!” he scoffed. “It was like we’d gone full circle. I was worried I’d have to invite myself along on your dates again. If there was even the remotest chance, and I lost you, I...” Sherlock shook his head.

“You really didn’t deduce the person I was interested in was you?” John wondered. “I felt it must be so obvious. I was mortified. I didn’t think—well, I thought you and Irene...”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “The only thing Irene and I have in common are that we’re both gay.”

There was a bit of silence as they processed their mutual stupidity.

“I suppose technically my plan backfired,” Sherlock said after a while. Answering John’s frown, he elaborated: “I’d meant to make you miss me, you see, with my videos. But then you started making ASMR. I didn’t expect that. And your videos, they... It’s hard to say how much they... The loneliness... I don’t think I fully comprehended how much I--”

John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock. It was the only thing to do, really, under the circumstances, and judging by Sherlock’s hungry response, John gauged that he agreed.

When they broke apart, John chuckled. “Brilliant,” John whispered in the shell of Sherlock’s right ear. “Amazing,” into his left ear.

Sherlock swallowed and sought out John’s lips again.

Sherlock eventually decided to delete his channel; John didn’t. He made a steady stream of videos, each title starting with “let’s”: “Let’s brush your hair”, “Let’s go to the park together”, “Let’s pick out a wedding suit”. Sherlock starred in a few of John’s videos, but he kept his whispers for John himself, usually late at night, usually as John was moving inside him or he inside John.

No, no one could have blamed John Watson for having sleepless nights. But they surely couldn’t begrudge him finding his peace, either.

_The end._

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a short, ASMR-centric fic that turned into a slightly longer, post-S4 fix-it fic with some ASMR in the mix. There was way less sex than I'd planned (as in, nothing explicit), and lots more angst. I'm still not sure how that happened, but anyway.
> 
> There are bound to be mistakes re: the fourth season, but honestly, I could only be arsed as much as Mofftiss were, so not a whole lot.
> 
> By some staggering coincidence, John and I had our ASMR cherries popped with the same ASMR video, [this one](https://youtu.be/WY0JWpKsdWQ).
> 
> Thanks for reading. If you spot any gratuitous mistakes, please let me know.


End file.
